


in winter we rest our weary eyes

by Nyaow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Robb, Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyaow/pseuds/Nyaow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Bran injured and Jon gone off to the Wall, the responsibilities of the family fall to Robb. That wasn't supposed to include leading men to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in winter we rest our weary eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I used a similar idea behind Robb's birth as The Wolf Queen and Children of Ice and Snow where Robb was born second after Catelyn's first child was a stillborn. The purpose behind it isn't the same, though (Jon hasn't been legitimized, nor has she - you'll see), and the age gap behind her and Jon is only about a year rather than two. I figured that her being literally younger wouldn't matter much since sisters, even older, would be treated naturally as though they were the little sibling anyway.

Theon Greyjoy becomes an addition to the Stark family at the end of another war. 

"Be nice," Ned tells his children when he gathers them in the main hall. It's drafty, but warm, and all but Theon are dressed in their lightest clothing. "Theon will be living here from now on, so it's better for all of you if you get along."

Though this seems like sound reasoning to him, Jon hangs back, staring warily through thick, black curls and chewing his nails. Sansa dusts off her pink skirts, focused on their cleanliness. It's Robb, then, who comes out from behind her brother to give the first hello. 

With a smile and a clumsy curtsy, she says, "I'm Robin, but everyone calls me Robb." Then she grabs her brother's sleeve with one hand and their sister's with the other. "This is Jon, and this is Sansa."

The boy blinks, watching them from behind Ned's legs, before he answers, "I'm Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands," and gives her a small smile back.

They'll be just fine, Ned decides, and breathes easy for the first time in days.

 

 

As with all children, the young residents of Winterfell are spring weeds, growing into awkward bodies with limbs with awkward limbs. Robb is thirteen now, still taking lessons with Ned's other son despite Catelyn's disapproval, and is just as likely to come home with bruises as she is with flowers. "This is what you get for playing with swords," Catelyn says the morning of Sansa's tenth name day, pulling hard at her daughter's corset despite her hisses and squeaks from pain. She clutches to the bed post, fingers as white as her pillows from the strain. "You're too old for games, Robin."

Robb's answer of "But they aren't  _games_ , Mother" is unfortunately expected. She's a quicker learner than is terribly good for her, and spent her childhood days outside of the sick room refusing to leave Jon Snow's side. Eventually Theon was absorbed into their little group, too, and everything derailed from there - where one was, so were the other two, impossible to pry away from one another. Catelyn got her hands in her soon enough to make her resemble a proper lady, but not in enough time to stop her appetite for all manner of activities and subjects undignified for a girl of her social status. 

The moment Arya showed signs of similar interests, Catelyn put a stop to it. Somehow, her youngest daughter ended up half-wild most days anyway.

"There are going to be lords and their wives dining with us tonight, Robb. Not many, but enough," Catelyn says, and ties the laces of the corset. Robb's so naturally thin already that it hardly makes a difference. "You're to stay with me the entire time. No sneaking off with the boys, do you understand? You need to make a good impression."

"Is this about marriage again? I don't want to marry someone I've never met," says Robb as she slips into her dress more easily than a person should be able to when laced into a front-back boned corset. It's dark blue with white trim, a woman's dress rather than a girl's, and makes her unruly curls only seem redder than usual.

They also need to do something about those, Catelyn thinks with a sigh.

When she holds up the brush, Robb narrows her eyes at the sight of it, but resigns herself to the inevitable. The bristles go through much more smoothly than Arya's earlier, which is good, as Robb has considerably more hair. "Your father and I didn't know much about each other at all when we married," Catelyn says, trying to decide if she wants to use a ribbon or pins. There are so many curls she may have use both. "We learned to love each other over time. Perhaps it isn't as romantic as the stories, but love like that is stronger. It lasts longer."

Regardless of how quick of a learner she is, Robb is still too young to understand. She protests vehemently all throughout the brushing and the braiding, and winces every time the corset digs into the bruise on her side. Her skin is white in the light of setting sun, the dark red of her curls near glowing, and her eyes the color of faded stained glass. A girl like that, so thin with such an undefined chin, what a pity, Catelyn once heard a woman say, but one day soon Robb will grow to someone as lovely as her late aunt. 

 

 

Marriage quickly becomes the looming inevitability that Robb knows will take everything away from her that she's ever wanted. Though Jon can't understand this, as much as he tries, Theon does to an extent. He's heir apparent of the Iron Island. That means he'll have to take a wife one day. They'll both be forced with someone they care nothing for. 

It's early evening, and the two of them are in the godswood with Jon. Summer's still here, and has been for a while, and it's so warm that their furs act as blanketing on the wet grass to keep their clothes dry. Both boys sit, but she lies on her back to watch the clouds float by. "We could always run away. Bran's heir to Winterfell. Our absence won't affect much," she says, and blows white fluff off the tuft of a dandelion. 

"That would leave the Iron Islands without a Greyjoy heir," Theon points out, but doesn't sound terribly enthusiastic. "They aren't Dorne. It won't go to Asha."

More than once Robb's wished the North was like Dorne. Then she could be heir apparent, and never need leave.

"At least you two have at least some idea of what's to happen," Jon says, leaning back against a tree and running his fingers across the pool's surface. Robb sees it when she turns her head, the sun too strong to look at the sky too long even this late in the day, and watches the ripple spread from his touch. "Bastards don't have any prospects at all."

"Wards aren't much better."

"It's better than being a woman."

A girl, a bastard, and a ward - a haphazard group of second-bests. They sigh in collective. Robb rips up the dandelion stem. Today Father received a raven from another northern House, extending an offer for an arranged marriage. She's thirteen, and hasn't yet bled. It's too early to think of marriage, she wants to say, but the ravens have been coming since she was six.

Then Jon says, "I could always go to the Wall," in a voice that means he's actually considering it.

Before she can yell at him, inform him that going to the Wall is a horrible idea and she'll disown him as a brother if he does, Theon actually laughs. "Swear to go celibate and freeze your balls off from cold to insure it? Oh, Jon, I'd take arranged marriage over that any day."

Jon spits out Uncle Benjen's ridiculous speech about the Night's Watch being a noble order that's an honor to serve, and Robb rolls onto her stomach, dancing her fingers across the water to create ripples like him. A goose squawks in offense, and flies off the pond. "People say marriage is an honor, Jon," she tells him, watching for fish dart about below her hand. "Theon and I aren't jumping into the unknown. I'm not ready for that sort of adventure."

Theon agrees that no, he isn't either, and Jon, still clearly displeased with their lack of encouragement, says, "Just wed each other, then. That should be enough to stop you from complaining."

Though Robb suspects the purpose was to make this awkward for them, he fails dismally. Instead Theon slips his hand in hers, pulling her up so she sits facing him. "He's right, that  _would_ make the most sense," he answers, and he's grinning that grin that never quite seems to reach his eyes. "Will you marry me, Lady Stark? Be my Lady of the Iron Islands for now and always?"

She laughs. "Oh, My Lord Greyjoy, your proposal is worthy of song."

"You two are fools," Jon says, and they laugh and laugh until she falls back into Theon, and kisses his check.

 

 

One day, something shifts. Robb doesn't attribute it to the fake proposal in the godswood, but she knows something is wrong with her when she finds out about another raven and looks back at that moment wishing it was real.

She doesn't tell Mother, she doesn't tell Jon, and she certainly doesn't tell Theon.

In the end, she cares about him far too much to risk what friendship they have.

 

 

The first time Jon realizes there's something different in the way Theon is looking at his sister, they're in the field just beyond the castle walls, trying to ignore the heat of the midday sun.

If it weren't for Bran's begging, they would be inside now, but like Robb, he's difficult to say no to. "My brave knight," she says to Theon, who was just bested by Bran in a fake tourney battle, "don't look so sad. Just because you won't be leading the quest to save the princess doesn't mean you're any less valiant." She has her sleeves pulled to her elbows, her skirts tucked into the bottom her corset to reveal her ankles, and stands on the lowest rung of the wooden fence so she needs to lean over the highest at the waist.

Theon smirks, reclines against the post next to her, sling his bow over his back, and for the first time - "Does this mean I still get my kiss, then, Your Grace?"

Robb leans close, and for one horrifying moment, Jon thinks she's actually going to do it. Then she kisses his cheek innocently and turns away with a flurry of skirts so they fall from her corsets. "You'll have to try harder than that for  _my_ favor, Greyjoy," she says, hopping over the fence with ease, and it sounds too much like a challenge.

When Jon told them in the godswood to get married to each other, he hadn't meant it. If they do, then they'll go off to the Iron Islands one day, and he'll be here in the North, alone. He really might as well leave for the Wall after all.

Arya asks if he's feeling all right, so he lies and says he isn't. He heads back to the castle blinking away tears, and thinks that he really should have known, because it's always the bastard that gets left behind.

 

 

"You two are ignoring each other and I don't like it," Robb says, entering Theon's room without permission when he's still just half awake. It's chilly, the night's fire burning low in the hearth, and she stands there fully alert with her hands on her hips. Cross. Lips thinned in Lady Catelyn's true image. 

" _I'm_ not ignoring him. If you want to know what's wrong, ask Snow."

It's not often that Theon calls Jon by his surname, but his friend's been giving him the cold shoulder for weeks and he's tried of it. As depressing as Jon is most days, they're the only two boys here around this age. Combine that with their mutual outcast status, and their feelings of solidarity were inevitable.

Which means Jon is absolutely under no circumstances allowed to ignore him.

He is anyway.

"I did go to him," Robb answers, thinned lips turning into an equally cross frown. "He just said he was 'busy' lately, but he seems to find enough time for me, so what is it?"

The answer is simple, really, but it's not something Theon is just going to come out and admit. Like most people, Jon has eyes, and unlike most people, he actually knows how to use them. It's not Theon's fault that his best friend's sister turned out the way she did - clever and kind and stubborn and stupidly beautiful. "I told you, I'm not ignoring him," he repeats, and she huffs in irritation. 

Before he has the chance to add anything, Robb says, "You're impossible," and heads back out the door.

 

 

Even though Jon should have done this the moment he realized something was going on, it takes him a while before he finally builds the courage necessary to take a seat next to Theon and say, "If you hurt her, I  _will_ kill you."

Jon's smaller than his friend, not done growing yet, but Theon takes him seriously regardless. "I'm not going to do anything. She's _Robb_ , not some whore," he answers, bristling. "Besides, I think Lord Stark would have my head if I did much more than hug her."

That, at the very least, is true. Father is protective of all of them, and Lady Catelyn of her children, but Robb had a hard birth that left her sick more often than healthy when she was young. Jon was young, too, of course, but he remembers being afraid more than once that Maester Luwin wouldn't be able to heal her next time. He and her parents have difficulty denying her anything for a reason.

By the time Bran came along, she was no longer sick all the time. Theon was here for the worst of it. 

"Good," Jon says, and considers the subject put away for now.

They can talk about it again later, if Father ever decides to do anything about it. Until then, Jon will just have to watch his friend more closely.

 

 

Today is Theon's twentieth name day. "What do you want as a present?" Robb asks, and hands him a slice of cake. They're outside, alone, because Jon's stuck putting Arya to bed. It's dark, the nighttime sky a patchwork quilt of deep grey clouds and pinprick silver stars without a moon to light their meeting.

Theon grins, lopsided and inviting trouble. "How about that kiss, Lady Stark?"

Though it's an awful idea, she leans over and presses her lips to his. It's her first kiss, and he tastes like ale and sugar rather than seasalt, as she imagined.

When he kisses back, she decides some things are worth the risk.

 

 

Kissing Robb once was a bad idea; making a habit of it is worse. 

If Jon notices them sneaking off to be alone, he's keeping it well hidden, but that isn't the main issue. Theon wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't do anything, but he hadn't anticipated a half-joking comment to result in her doing something first. As he's older, and the one with better sense (supposedly), he knows he should put a stop to it, but the longer he holds it off, the more reluctant he is to let her go.

He doesn't know how it came to this, how it went from racing to pools in the godswood for a swim with her brother to pressing her back against his bed. Her hair, as deep red as the blood from a mortal wound, spreads out loose across the grey of the furs, and she feels fragile beneath him. When standing, she reaches no taller than his chin, and all the running around she does left her slim in build, and he enjoys this more about that than he probably should. They never go quite as far as he'd like, but there are some boundaries even he isn't willing to cross, and bedding will be a nightmare if she isn't a maid. 

"For someone so careless, you certainly do get lost in your head a lot, Theon," she says suddenly, breathless, and raises an eyebrow. She's on her back against his bed, her skirts around her waist. "Did something happen?"

Shaking his head, he answers, "Just taking in the look of you," because he doesn't have it in him to say he thinks this is a very bad idea.

With a smile, she pulls him down, and runs her fingers through his hair. Her dress is soft underneath his knee, her hand cold in his. She's ice, deadly and breakable all at once. 

Maybe he should ask Lord Eddard for her hand. Some things are worth the risk.

 

 

Ever since Robb was about thirteen, letters about potential suitors found their way to Ned's desk. The idea's come to Catelyn as a passing thought more than once, but it's not until Robert writes about a possible match with Joffrey that she asks, "How about Theon?"

Ned looks up from his friend's letter, engrossed in his duties with his candle burning low on his study desk. "For Robb?"

Like her husband, Catelyn has no trust or love for Balon Greyjoy, but Robert's request reads as more of a demand and it takes an awfully good excuse to deny the King. The thought of wedding her to _Joffrey_ leaves her sick. "It's better than sending her to King's Landing," she says, and glances again to the letter. "Ned, she's not Sansa. The city would rip her apart."

As much as she loves her daughter, it's true that Robb grew up  _wrong._ She's far too dependent on her brother and friend, and Catelyn should have put a stop to it years ago.

Sighing, Ned says, "I know," and leans back in his chair. "You make it sound as though the Iron Islands will be much better."

"She has the education of a lord. At least Theon will let her use it."

Marrying Theon into the family will remove his status as a hostage, which as much as they try to avoid mentioning in front of the children, is still a truth needed for consideration. At the same time, it binds them through blood, and that's a different, equally as real deterrent to rebellion. More than that, she's seen the way the two of them look at each other. Robb will have longer in the North, in Winterfell, and be wed to someone who already knows she's odd. 

After a long silence, Ned must come to this conclusion, too, because he says, "I'll speak with them about it in the morning. She's old enough that she should be wed soon, anyway."

Part of motherhood means bartering off her children, Catelyn knows, and she always assumed she'd have to work something out for Theon. She just never thought she would be marrying them off to each other.

 

 

Next morning comes, and there's a deserter needing beheading.

"You should speak with Robb alone," Ned says as he gathers his things, looking out the solar window to the yard. Below, Theon and Jon are helping Bran prepare. "I'll have a talk with Theon on the way back."

Catelyn stares. "That's cruel, Ned."

Cruel or not, he won't have this opportunity with Sansa or Arya's future husband. But he has Theon here as a captive audience, and a deserter ready for execution. While he doubts the boy would ever hurt his daughter, Ned still wants him to understand the consequences.

"Just try not to scare him away," his wife tells him, and kisses him on the cheek before sending him along.

Bran smiles brightly at the sight of him, and Theon and Robb, who must be here to see them off, are laughing at something while Jon frowns in clear disapproval. Winter is coming, and here are his summer children, unprepared to weather against it. For now, Ned can let them have this moment, but like the seasons, all things come to an end eventually.

 

 

"Theon, come here," Lord Stark says suddenly, interrupting Theon's internal battle at trying to decide which direwolf in his arm he should give to Robb. "I need to speak with you privately."

These are words he hasn't heard from either Lord Stark or Lady Catelyn since he was a child, and unlike back then, he doubts this bodes well. A quick glance at Jon provides nothing but a slight shrug, which means he doesn't know, either, and Theon desperately prays with everything he has that Lord Stark hasn't found out about what he's doing with Robb. "Yes, My Lord?" he says, hurrying to fall into step as Bran scampers back to come up next to Jon. 

Lord Stark places a hand on the back of his neck, harder than expected, and the grey direwolf yips. "As you know," he says, almost conversationally, "you and Robb are both marrying age." The air freezes up in Theon's throat, because this is the speech of someone who knows. Next it's going to be his head on the block. "She's had a number of requests of the years, but my wife and I have agreed we have a better solution than Willas Tyrell. Do you know what that is, Theon?"

It takes him a moment to realize what Lord Stark is saying. This isn't a speech about how he's going to kill him for doing terribly indecent things to his daughter after hours at all, but - "Me?"

For years, even before Theon had actually felt anything beyond sisterly friendship for Robb, he'd always hoped the Starks would wed them and adopt him as a real son. He never thought it would actually happen (or, at least not without a request for her hand that came with a very good argument as to why it would be a good idea).

"Are you willing, Theon?"

Still not over the shock, he says, "I am, My Lord."

"And will you treat her well? Be a proper husband?"

"I swear."

"Are you aware of what will happen if you won't?"

"I think she'd get to me with a butter knife first, My Lord."

Though Lord Stark doesn't quite smile, he does something nearing it. "When you tell Jon, do it gently," he says, and oh, no, Theon momentarily forgot about that. 

When he turns around, the last direwolf they found - the little white one - is rubbing his face all over Jon's palm like a cat. This isn't going to go over well.

 

 

After Jon brings Theon away somewhere presumably suitable for threatening, Sansa drags Robb into her room. "Are you happy?" she asks, which she thinks is a rather foolish question, in retrospect, because Robb hasn't stopped smiling.

There are no songs about childhood friends falling in love and marrying, but it's better than some arrangement. And Theon's still a lord, even if he is a little strange, and likes to steal Robb away from knitting lessons. "Very," she answers, and strokes the little direwolf he gave her behind her ears. Of course, they all got direwolves, but the way he gave it to her seemed almost like a betrothal gift, which is much more romantic than most girls can expect, Robb said a year ago.

Well, this certainly shows  _her._

"Do you love him?"

Robb doesn't look away from her direwolf. Sansa's curls up tighter on the armchair by the fire, watching her sister, who barely appears to hear her. "Hm?" she says, glancing up just briefly. "Oh. I don't know. The marriage has only been arranged for a few hours now, Sansa. I can't decide if I love him this quickly."

This is a lie. Contrary to what Arya might think, Sansa isn't so dense that she doesn't notice anything outside of her songs. No, something odd has been going on with Robb and Theon for some time, and Jon's seen it too. That much is obvious from the glare he'll occasionally give Theon whenever he and Robb get too close. Wedding a longtime love is so _romantic_ , Sansa thinks. "So what does it feel like?" she says, ignoring her sister. "How did you know you were in love?"

Now Robb does look up, one eyebrow quirked, and says, "The moment you feel like you're melting on the inside every time you look at him. That's when you know."

"Like you're melting?" Sansa says, scrunching her mouth to one side. "But that sounds painful, not good."

"No, it's not painful," Robb tells her, turning her attention to the fire. She's restless. "Perhaps melting is the wrong word. Or - no, it is. We're Starks, Sansa. Ice is in our blood. But even ladies of ice need to thaw."

 

 

Years ago, when Jon said that he'd go to the Wall, maybe, he hadn't been serious. But now Robb and Theon are to be wed, already this combined force of tangled fingers and private smiles. One day they'll go off to the Iron Islands, and Jon will just be a figure in the stories of their childhood. The bastard always gets left behind. Maybe it's time he takes the initiative and leaves himself before the others can leave him. 

They'll have each other, he tells himself, and catches sight of Theon tucking stray curls behind Robb's ear, away from her face, as she finishes up some needlepoint for the royal visit in the drab sewing room. They'll have each other, and they don't need me.

 

 

When Jon tells Robb, he expects her to slap him. It isn't until after she asks, "What can I do to make you stay?" that he realizes that this was the inevitable question.

She's looking up at him, blue eyes hard and looking too much like her mother's for him to be entirely comfortable. Over the past fortnight, the royal family's been here, which means her hair's kept twisted away into a braid. It brings attention to her face - too noticeable cheekbones, wide mouth, rounded nose. She's growing to look more Tully and less Stark with each day. 

"Nothing. I'm doing this," he says, and when she goes to turn away, he takes her arm. "Look, Robb, you know I love you - all of you, even Sansa, and she hates me - but there's no place for me here. I'm a Snow, not a Stark."

"This is Winterfell, this is your  _home,_ you'll always -"

"Robb, Balon Greyjoy is old." She abruptly shuts her mouth, blinks, and he can see the moment where she understands. "You two will be leaving here likely sooner rather than later when Theon becomes Lord of the Iron Islands. None of us will be here."

As children, Theon described the Iron Islands to them, cold and wet and miserable. Jon can't imagine any of them anywhere else but Winterfell, and they're all leaving. He can't be the only one who stays. "That's annoyingly sound reasoning," she says, and hugs him tightly, fingers digging into his furs. Winter is coming, as the Stark words say, and each day is cooler than the last. "Don't you dare die some horrible, bloody death out there, Jon. You're better than that."

Out beyond the Wall, it's so cold her tears would freeze on her face. Jon's not better than anything at all, but he can let his sister believe that for now.

 

 

Bran falls. Robb is the one who finds him.

"He's heir, isn't he, Mother?" she hears Myrcella ask the Queen later while Robb stands shock still in the hall in her bloody skirts. The ground was covered, and she kneeled right in it as she called out for help. "What will Lord Stark do now?"

Legitimize his bastard son would be the smart decision. Rickon's only six, so he can't do a thing. Mother will be holed up at Bran's bedside until he wakes. If he wakes. Until. 

Except that Jon is leaving, too, and he's going somewhere where he'll have to give up lands and titles, if he had them. So is she, soon to be off to the Iron Islands, a wolf among krakens. 

It's not until Myrcella slips a clean hand in her bloody one does Robb realize she's crying again for the second time in a week. 

 

 

After everyone leaves, and the snow continues to fall in light flurries from the sky, Robb falls into Theon's bed for the first time. Though he knows he should tell her all the reasons this is a not the most beneficial idea for a lady, she's already his betrothed, and everyone is gone. Catelyn is at Bran's bedside, ready to sink into herself forever if it means not leaving until her dear son is awake.

If they want, they can fake a bedding. There are ways.

Together, they manage to undress her, his soon-to-be bride, without damaging any of her delicate clothes. Despite the darkness, the world feels bright, and the air is cold from summer snow drifting down outside, but bumps don't raise on her skin until he runs his fingers down her side. Stripping him is easier, but the miserable cold affects him more, and he wonders if he's lived here long enough to borrow their ice for the night. 

Grey Wolf lays curled up at the door, acting guard. Robb gasps when Theon touches her, slipping his fingers inside, where she's not so cold. When he pushes in, she silences her own whine of pain with a hand over her mouth. He thinks he could drown in her, that he's Stark enough that water can swallow him now, and he wouldn't give a damn even if it freezes after him. 

Virginity means they're done almost as quick as they started, and he was careful not to finish inside her. "Never leave me," she says quietly through her hair, curls covering the bottom half of her face. "I can't lose you, Theon."

He reaches over, and moves away as much as he can. "I won't, I swear it on the whole pantheon of Westeros," he tells her.

"Do you mean it?"

"Now and always."

Then her mouth twists upwards without humor, and with her red hair sticking to her lips, her smile is an open wound.

 

 

Theon isn't a Stark, Rickon is a child, and Mother refuses to leave the unconscious heir's room. Without no one else here, and Robb's unconventional education, Maester Luwin reluctantly gives command of the North over to her. It would be easier if she wasn't suddenly a parent to her youngest brother as well, but she's a Lady of Winterfell, and she can make due. 

With Theon and Maester Luwin at her side, and Grey Wind lying at the foot of the table, no one dares speak out against it. Thankfully, it isn't long before she shows herself to be capable, too, though it's difficult not express her own surprise. 

Unfortunately, her competence for domestic politics doesn't carry over to child rearing. 

"I  _need_ you, Mother," she says from Bran's doorway, finally at the point of pleading. She hasn't had a proper night's rest in weeks. "Rickon needs you. He's a child, and he cries, clinging to my leg, asking where everyone is, where  _you_ are, and -"

Mother looks up, but she's seeing someone other than her daughter, or maybe no one at all. "I need to stay with him, I need to be here when he wakes," she insists, and like that, Robb loses her to void of her misery again.

Misery and loss absorbs the castle. Here is Robb, a girl of sixteen acting as Lord and Lady, as mother with her betrothed as father, and her own mother driven half-mad with grief. Summer snows are now autumn snows, more frequent. Decency between Robb and Theon is an old worry, worn down and thrown away.

What she wants is Father, her sisters, Jon. Bran whole, and Mother here again. Yet she has nothing save the coming winter and the simple truth that she's a Stark, and no matter what, Starks will endure.

 

 

It's night when Catelyn saves Bran from the murderer, and it isn't until the next afternoon that she has a chance to see her daughter. Though she expects Robb to still be working on the promised appointments, she finds her teaching hand games to Rickon in the yard while Theon practices archery.

For a moment, she looks so much like a mother, comfortable in her role as such, that Catelyn is too stunned to call out. Then Ser Rodrik is suddenly at her side, one sword at his belt and another that she recognizes as her daughter's favorite in hand. "It's good to see you up and about, My Lady," he says with an easy smile. "How are your hands feeling?"

Rickon huffs, and tackles his sister, who falls backwards with a cry of, "Save me, Theon. He's too strong!"

"They don't hurt anymore," Catelyn answers, distracted, and it's not true. "Thank you for your concern, Ser Rodrik. Will you please find Maester Luwin and meet us in the godswood?"

Before Ser Rodrik can answer, Theon catches sight of her, and his smile fades. "L - Catelyn, how are you feeling?"

Once the betrothal was finalized, she and Ned both told him to no longer call them by their titles, as is tradition with the parents of husbands and wives. "Very well, thank you," she says, as Ser Rodrik agrees and leaves, and Rickon leaps off Robb, running towards her, shouting, "Mother!" over and over.

He knocks into her, and she realizes with jolt that he's grown. Theon helps up her daughter, who inches forward with eyebrows drawn together and a smile too small to crease her cheeks. "Mother," she say, and hugs Catelyn tightly. "I'm relieved to hear your hands will recover. Maester Luwin told me this morning."

Maester Luwin hadn't told her he'd spoken with Robb, though Catelyn had seen him not a half hour ago. "Yes, well, there will be scars, but there are worse things in the world," she answers, and decides to get this over with now. "Robb, Theon, I need you to meet me in the godswood after I bring Rickon to Nan."

Of course, the statement meets resistance, but it's her daughter and not her that Rickon turns too. "Robb, can't I go, too?"

"We're going to be talking taxes," Robb says, kneeling down to his level. "You don't want to talk taxes with us, do you?"

With a frown, Rickon says, "No, but,  _Robb_ -"

"Go with Mother, Rickon."

Though clearly displeased, he still calls out, "Here, Shaggydog!" and grabs onto Catelyn's skirts. "I don't like taxes," he says solemnly, and she agrees that they're boring things indeed.

She hadn't known he even knew what taxes were. He's six, after all.

What happened? she wonders, but the better question is, Why wasn't I here?

As she walks away, she looks back and sees Theon and Robb walk towards the godswood, heads close together as they whisper the secrets of husbands and wives.

 

 

Finding out that everyone is gone is difficult enough, but Bran doesn't know how he's ever going to act as Lord of Winterfell. "Ten isn't of age," Robb says when he wakes, not looking at him from where she sits at his bedside. "I've been talking care of everything."

Unlike Dorne, women don't control Houses in the North. Bran knows that as well as anyone else, but he thinks, after he gets over his surprise, that if anyone can do it, it's Robb. "But now I'm awake," he says, and looks down at useless legs. "Even if I am - well. I have to do something now."

"Maester Luwin will help you in any decision-making you need assistance in," she says, and stands. "You should get some rest, Bran. I know it's been a long day."

It has been a long day, and he knows that each day is going to be longer. Though he hates it, he knows that after a month of being asleep, he can't just take charge. He's still having trouble sitting up.

The next morning he gives control over to Robb, officially, even if he doesn't know if he's allowed to. But no one else knows if he's allowed to, either, and Robb becomes acting Lady of Winterfell until Bran comes of age.

 

 

When the raven arrives from Maester Luwin stating what Bran did, Ned hesitates, unsure. The North isn't quite as frigid as the cold in its ways, but it still has rules.

That said, options are limited, and he writes permission to finalize the motion anyway. 

 

 

_My dear Jon,_

_Bran is awake, but Maester Luwin says he's never to walk again. He misses you, as do the rest of us. My mother is unwell, and Bran too young, so until the time she recovers, I will act as Lady of Winterfell. Theon and I hope the Lord Commander will release you long enough to attend our wedding, whenever that will be._

_Love always,_ _Robb_

Jon stares at the letter for a long time in the dim light of his room's candle, not certain which part is the least believable. There's Bran, never to walk. Lady Catelyn, this invulnerable force of will suddenly ill. And Robb, Lady of Winterfell. Maybe he should have stayed, as she asked. Bastard or not, he has the same education, and he could help. He could be there for her. 

Then again, she has Theon. It's not as though she's alone. 

Before bed, he stuffs the letter into the pocket of his shirt. Knowing his luck, it'll be the last he ever receives. 

 

 

Though it took a while, eventually Theon and Robb did come up with a routine to look after Rickon. Bran is a bundle of anger in the aftermath of waking, but they know how to wheedle him down. Even so, Theon doesn't understand how he gained bedtime story duty. 

It takes some time, but eventually Bran stops frowning through every story and actually listening. Theon tells him everything he vaguely remembers hearing when he first came to Winterfell, about the Children of the Forest and monsters that prowl through the godswood. The sorts of tales Lady Catelyn would disapprove of, but the only ones interesting enough to stick in his memory. Besides, this boy is going to be his brother for true, soon; it's only fair he acts like it. 

Then, one night, Bran asks, "Can you tell me something from the Iron Islands, Theon?"

Theon goes to answer, to start, but his mind drags up nothing. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he's been in Winterfell longer than he was in Pyke. How is he supposed to govern somewhere he can scarcely remember the legends of?

He tells Bran about the sea raging against the rocks, and the Drowned God ready to pull any disrespecting sailors beneath the waves. "Sails dot the horizon all times of the day," he says. "You can see them as far out as your vision goes, belonging to massive ships that can carry over a hundred men at a time. They catch their fish with nets big as this room or bigger, and spears taller than me. Even the poorest smallfolk can feast if you teach him how to fish, and that's just about the only thing there is on the Iron Islands, you see. Grass there is coarse from the salty air, and not much grows. The sea wears down everything. That's how the world will end."

"I always thought the world would end when the eternal winter came."

With a shrug, Theon says, "Maybe they both happen. The sea drowns everything first, then winter comes and freezes the world solid."

Nine years he spent on the Iron Islands. Now he's twenty-one, and he's helping his wife make decisions on what to do with the North. 

The world might end when the sea swallows it all, but it seems like the Starks managed to ruin him first. 

 

 

One of those great direwolves lays sprawled in front of the high table of Winterfell's great hall, eyes closed, but Tyrion thinks that if he so much as breathes wrong, he'll feel teeth at his throat before he can even begin to move.

It's Robin Stark watches him closely from the Lord's seat, not her younger brother, as Jon Snow said. During Tyrion's last visit, they hadn't interacted much beyond what they were obligated to, and he doesn't appreciate the way she seems to be assessing him. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Lord Tyrion," she tells her, and her face is as blank as it has been. Even her courtesies are cold. 

Bran Stark, regaled to position as second sibling, smiles slightly, and rolls back up the diagram; the Greyjoy boy is still tense. "The feather beds in the brothels will be soft enough, Lady Stark," he says, and her wolf's ears twitch. "Both of us will rest easier without me in these walls, clearly."

The girl doesn't protest. "Thank you for the gift," she says instead, and it's the first time her words don't seem barbed around the edges.

Even so, she gives Greyjoy a pointed look as Tyrion turns to leave, and the boy follows him out. Not even wed yet, and they can already communicate with just a glance. That's more than Tyrion can say for most husbands and wives. 

This does make him wonder what will happen when the girl leaves for the Iron Islands. 

As clear as it is that she's in love what that boy, Ned Stark was a fool. She can't stay Lady of Winterfell forever, after all, and those Ironborns are going to eat her alive.

 

 

At age five, Robb came down with a fever that left her bedridden for near a month. When she was finally recovered and free, Father said she could do what she liked, in reason, and she wanted to spend time with Jon, except that he still had to go to her lessons. The logical course of action in her young mind was to join him. That's what started it, her following his every step and her unconventional education. She never thought that all that anything good would come from being so ill as a child, but if it weren't for that, then Winterfell wouldn't have a Stark old enough to take care of it. 

With Mother gone and Father injured somewhere in King's Landing, that seems more important than ever. 

"When are you going to tell him?" Theon asks as they watch Bran ride the forest clearing in circles. Robb is curled in her furs to avoid dirtying her dress in the fallen leaves peppering the log she and Theon sit upon, more conscious of her appearance than she was before she became temporary liege. "If we don't soon, Maester Luwin will have to."

Her brother looks so happy on his horse, elated at the discovering that he can do something they thought no longer possible, that Robb is afraid to tell him what happened to their father. "I don't know how he's going to react," she says. "He's  _ten._ "

Though she is the acting Lady of Winterfell, she does face certain restrictions, and likely the best way to handle something like this is one of them. "Call the banners is what he should do," Theon answers, and she isn't surprised this is his first solution. "Blood for blood. The Lannisters need to pay for Jory and the others."

"Yes, just what we need. A boy of ten hearing talk of war." Sighing, she turns to face Theon and continues, "My father is the currently one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. That has to account for at least some favor with King Robert. Even if I did think that a good plan, who would listen to us? A lord not legally a lord, Ned Stark's _daughter_ , and a Greyjoy. Direwolves only inspire so much confidence, no matter how impressive."

"You're a Stark of Winterfell, Robin. The whole North will rally behind you if they need to," he says. "And the Iron Islands, one day."

Most ladies her age are wed by now. At this rate, she thinks Sansa will probably have a wedding before she does. "Regardless of whether or not the Iron Islands will accept a Stark as their Lady one day," she says, "war is still not an - Bran? Bran!"

Too late, she notices her younger brother's silence. Theon stands when she does, already knocking an arrow to his bow as precaution. The best Robb has is a knife. 

Without speaking, she follows Theon into the forest and off the trail.

 

 

Today wasn't supposed to end with Robb's hands covered in blood. She stands in the silence of her solar, Theon in front of her and Grey Wind at her feet.

"I just meant to get him on the ground, I hadn't meant to, not like - but Bran -"

Theon gathers her in his arms and lets her shake.

 

 

There's so much going through Jon's head when Uncle Benjen's horse returns without its rider that he isn't sure what he's thinking, exactly, but Sam sorts it out for him. "You can't be thinking of leaving, can you?" he asks, forehead creased and eyes wide, eating hid half loaf of hard bread steadily.

It's not that Jon was contemplating leaving, necessarily. Rather, he was indecisive about what he should do. "My sister is going to worry," he says, watching in the yard through the window as a few men attempt to subdue Uncle Benjen's horse. "He's family. She's going to hear about this."

By now, the whole of the Night's Watch knows the North is being governed by a woman. No matter how many times Jon insists she has the education, they don't seem to believe him. He's already come close to a few fights from certain choicey comments he hears from his brothers. Uncle Benjen going missing on today of all days doesn't seem like a good sign, and Jon doesn't know how much Robb can realistically handle on her own. Theon can try, but he isn't a Stark.

Jon might not be either, but he's half one. That has to count for something. 

"But no. I'm not thinking of leaving," he continues, and isn't entirely honestly about it. "I'm just worried about my family."

This is reasonable, he thinks, and Sam must think so too, because he doesn't ask for further elaboration.

 

 

Before Ned makes his move against the Queen in light of his friend's death, he writes one last letter to Winterfell.

_Robin of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, is heir of House Stark in the event of my death._

While he feels terrible robbing Bran of his right to succession, Ned knows his plan isn't without certain risks. If this gets him executed for treason, then the North needs to stay strong. The ideal choice would have been Jon, but he would have taken his vows by now; it would take a royal decree to break those, not just a lord's words. Catelyn, once she reaches Winterfell, would help Bran, of course, but he's still not of age. What Ned needs is an assurance that the Lannisters won't find some reason to seize his family's lands, that his children and the people of the North remain safe. Even if that means legitimizing his daughter as an heir.

He signs it with his official signature, all titles necessary. It feels a bit excessive, but it needs to be done.

Before he leaves, he passes the letter to Baelish, meeting with him in the safety of the Tower of the Hand. "If this goes wrong," Ned says to the one man he can trust, "send this home."

 

 

Things go wrong. Petyr Baelish throws the letter in the fire.

 

 

Sansa says, when she comes to the Queen's private quarters to meet with the Small Council, "My sister is governing North, Your Grace, not my brother," and Cersei smiles. 

Sweet girls, the Starks, or the two anyway, but Sansa's not terribly quick. Cersei doubts it's any different for her sister. They have too much color for the North with their auburn hair and eyes sky blue; no lord loyal to the Starks will kneel for a girl who looks so Tully. "Then this must be addressed to the Lady Robin," she says. "Tell her to come to King's Landing and swear fealty to Joffrey."

"If I could go to my father, just speak with him -" 

Like a good girl, Sansa quiets under the judgement of everyone's gaze. An oathbreaker's daughter, traitor's blood. Did Ned Stark really think his scheme would work? King's Landing is no place for honorable men. "You disappoint, child," Cersei says with a shake of her head. "We've told you of your father's treason. Why would you want to speak with a traitor?"

Face pale, Sansa says, "I only meant - what will happen to him?"

Picking up the dove feathered quill, Cersei answers, "That all depends on you. And your sister."

Lady Robin will come and swear fealty. Unlike her brother, she still has working knees to bend. And surely even the daughter of someone as stubborn as Ned Stark knows no she-wolf stands a chance against a lioness of Casterly Rock.

 

 

When the raven comes, Bran's in the room, but it's Robb that Maester Luwin hands the letter to. She might be acting Lady of Winterfell, but Bran's still Lord, and he thinks that's probably considered unfair. Even so, when her immediate reaction is to crumple to paper in her hand, he thinks he'd rather not be the one to read it first. 

"King Robert is dead, Father captured for treason, and the Queen wants me to come to King's Landing to swear fealty," she tells them, and doesn't look at any of them. " _Sansa_ wrote it. There's no mention of Arya."

She says Sansa's name like it's a curse. "What did Father do?" Bran asks. "Why would the Queen think he's a traitor?"

There's a moment where no one moves. Then Robb and Theon exchange a long glance before she just says, "Sansa gave no reason."

"It might be your sister's hand, My Lady, but it's the Queen's words," Maester Luwin says, but Robb's hand stays so tightly clenched that her fingers are white. She and Sansa were always close. "What are you going to do?"

Another look. Suddenly, Bran realizes that his sister and Theon have already talked about this, like they've known it was coming. Like they've been hiding something from him. And he might be Lord, but she's acting as one now, and whatever she chooses is probably what Jon would, since they took the same lessons. "What are we going to do?" he says, and finally, Robb looks at him.

Her dress is bigger on her than it used to be, and her hair, though braided, has curls poking out in flyaway tendrils. And her posture has always been good, but it's almost  _too_ good. She's trying to hide it, but she's his older sister; Bran can see clear enough that she's falling apart. "Well. We can't just ignore a royal degree," she says, "but they can't really expect to put our father in chains, and force our sister to write us a warning, and expect us go bend the knee. So I'll go to King's Landing, but I won't go alone. Call the banners."

Bran's not surprised, and from Theon's grin he definitely isn't either, but apparently Maester Luwin is. He hesitates before saying, "All of them, My Lady? Is that -"

"They all wore loyalty to my father," she says, arching an eyebrow in a warning as clear as Sansa's letter. "I don't care what I am. I'm the one here who's of age. I'm a proper Stark. I'm my father's daughter, and I know how to fight. We'll see if their loyalties are really as true as they say they are. Bran?"

With Mother gone, and Father captured, and his other sisters trapped in King's Landing while Jon's off at the Wall, the last thing Bran wants is for Robb to leave too. "Do it," he says, though the words are nearly stuck in his throat. 

 

 

The banners are summoned, all of them, and Robb has no idea how many will show, or if any will come. She's a girl, a Lady. Outside of House Mormont, who cares about that? For years, people have called her beautiful, but right now she needs to be more than a pretty face if she plans to win men's respect and loyalty.

One victory. That's all it should take.

Theon looks at her from the corner of his eye once they've retreated to the comfort of her solar. If this really works, they don't have much longer where they can stay in bed together, because it's not as though they can marry before this. It will take away her position as Lady Stark. "Are you afraid?" he asks as she sits and he tends the fire.

That's when she notices her shaking hand. "I must be," she answers, and doesn't understand why she feels the need to laugh. 

"Good."

"Why?" Starting from this moment onward, fear is the last thing she needs. 

Looking at her straight on, now, he answers, "Because it means you're not stupid."

Maybe she is stupid, maybe she isn't. This is about to be the defining moment in both of their lives, and it's time to see what they're really made of.

 

 

Though the lords come, it seems to be more out of curiosity than anything else. Half these men proposed marriages for her, and Robb turned them all down for a Greyjoy. Now she's asking them to go to war. She delegates decisions based on the separate Houses' strengths the best she can, and the choices must be smart enough, because after a while, most stop questioning her. 

That is, until it comes to the vanguard. 

Lord Glover seems the best choice, but Lord Umber protests immediately, taking a seat at the opposite head of the table previously left empty. "Thirty years I've been making corpses out of men, girl," he says, and her hands bunch at the fabric of Jon's spare trousers she tailored to fit her. "I'm the man you want leading the vanguard."

After spending so long working with smallfolk and lords who come in seeking counsel, Robb knows how to solve conflict. Still, that doesn't make it any easier. "Galbart Glover will be leading the van."

"The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber will march behind a Glover," he answers, and throws his head back to make sure the whole hall hears him. "I'll be leading the van, or I'll take my men and march them home."

This is what she's afraid of, and she knows that if one lord does it, the rest will, too. Besides, against a Lannister host, she needs as many men as she can rally. Numbers might not decide a war, her father taught her, but they certainly help. "You're welcome to do that, Lord Umber," she says before standing, "and when I'm done with the Lannisters, I will march back North, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker."

He stands so fast his chair knocks backwards, but she doesn't break eye contact. "An oathbreaker?" he says, and pushes his goblet aside hard enough that it slides off the table and hits the floor. He's taller than her, and stronger, and certainly more intimidating, but she's not letting that be the end of her. "I won't sit here and take insults from a child."

The moment his hand touches his hilt, Theon stands too, ready to draw his knife, but he never against the chance. Grey Wind leaps up the table first, runs across in a ripple of movement, and Lord Umber hits the ground with a thud. Then he screams, her direwolf growls, and there comes the sound of crunching bone and tearing flesh.

Her wolf returns with a bloody jaw. Lord Umber pulls himself to his feet, and two fingers are missing. Robb keeps her face blank. "My father taught me it was death to bear steal against your liege, lord or lady," she says. "Doubtless, the Lord Umber only suffered from a loss of coordination."

Silence falls, and there's no sound other than Lord Umber's pained breathing. Everything hinges on this moment, and his reaction. If this goes badly, that's it, and all these lords are gone, or will march south without her.

Theon doesn't relax the grip on his knife. 

Then, by some miracle, Lord Umber begins to laugh. "You, My Lady," he says. "You're not a child, but a damned she-wolf."

Everyone else laughs, then, and she joins in from relief. Theon still doesn't relax his grip.

 

 

After Robb cleans off the fur around Grey Wind's mouth, and after she makes her decision to leave in the dead of night, she goes to say goodbye to Bran.

It's dark as pitch, but her eyes adjust to see blacker shapes within the darkness, and she finds the bed without knocking into anything. Soon enough she'll be collecting bruises again, and she doesn't need to begin in the safety of her castle. 

She doesn't light a candle, but Bran wakes when she takes a seat at the edge of the bed. "We're leaving in a number of hours," she tells him, reaching over the brush his hair from his forehead. "It might be a while before we see each other again, Bran."

His eyes reflect in what little light is coming through the windows. That's always what gives away an enemy, Father told her, or Jon, but she was there; even in the darkness, the eyes betray a man. "But it's the middle of the night," her brother answers, confused, and though she feels bad about leaving him alone, she knows this is the best she can do.

According to Mother, it was the Lannisters that pushed him from the window. Now they have Father and Sansa held. Arya received not even a mention, so it's unlikely she's still in King's Landing. If they're allowed to continue, they'll keep pushing their boundaries until the Starks have nothing, and Robb refuses to see her family fall. "It will take the Queen longer to hear of us marching south if we don't leave during the day," she says. "The Kingsroad at night is dangerous for anyone, even a Lannister scout. But I'll return soon, with Father and our sisters. Mother will be here even sooner."

"Do you promise you'll return, Robb?"

Her eyes have adjusted enough that she can make out the shape of him. "I swear it on the weirdwood trees," she says, and kisses his forehead. "Take care of Rickon. Winterfell is yours now in its entirety, as it should be."

Though it's hard, she leaves him sitting there, alone and afraid in the dark. 

 

 

Catelyn's return is met by near immediate friction, and Theon only stays in the tent because Robb looked to him with such wide eyes that he didn't have it in him to leave her alone. 

"Of all the irresponsible things to do," Catelyn begins, and cuts herself off with Robb having to do anything. Then she turns to him and asks, "How did you  _let_ her do this, Theon?"

Though this was his idea, he knows he can't say that without feeling the end of the Tully wrath, but he's saved by having to think up an answer when Robb answers for him, "Theon didn't  _let_ me do anything, Mother. We can to a decision - Bran, Maester Luwin, and the two of us, and the lords have followed willingly. They have Father, and Sansa, and Arya. I wasn't going to stay into Winterfell and wait -"

When Catelyn twists in order to point outside, she nearly hits Theon in the chest. "Every one of those men is a Northern lord, Robin," she says. "Any of them could have led this themselves if war is the only option."

"None of them are Starks," Robb snaps, and snatches the crumpled letter off the table. "War  _is_ the only option, Mother. If you think you can send me back to Winterfell -"

"I'm your mother, I very well -"

"I'm Lady of Winterfell, and the choice to remain is mine to make."

The two stare at each other, eyes narrowed into identical glares. Eventually, though, Catelyn relents, and unfurls the letter. As she reads, she sinks into one of the chairs. "This is Sansa's writing," she says. "There's no mention of Arya. Robb, what happened?"

With a sigh, Robb looks to Theon, and together, they explain.

 

 

It's been months since Tyrion saw any of his family when he makes it back to his father's camp in the aftermath of his release from the Vale. The last thing he wants to discuss is the Starks, but it was bound to happen. He just wasn't expected Lady Robin to be the centerpiece of the conversation when Father calls him to the War Council tent.

"Her, Greyjoy, it doesn't matter which one is really leading the Northern army," Father says, looking up from his papers. "We're up against either a green boy or a girl. One taste of battle and they'll go running back to Winterfell with their tails between their legs."

Even without actual verification, Tyrion doesn't doubt the commander is Lady Robin. After what Jon Snow said about her, it wouldn't be surprising. "Maybe," he says, and thinks back to the ice in her eyes when she looked at him in Winterfell's hall. "Though the girl does have a certain...quickness. You'd like her."

Father looks to him skeptically. During their stay in Winterfell, Cersei hadn't thought a thing about the girl. The most Tyrion thought of her was in conjunction to the Greyjoy boy, and how astounding it was that they actually looked happy. 

A girl with the education of Lord Eddard Stark, leading a host to war. If Robin Stark truly does intend to fight, this is going to be a sight to see. 

 

 

When the scout's brought in, Robb knows proper procedure is for her to kill him. But she needs this first victory to gain loyalty, as she already has respect, so she decides to use him to her advantage instead. Two armies they need to go against, and if they attack one, inevitably the other will come to its aid. 

The scout looks at her, more confused than anything else, and thankfully he's not terribly tall. "Were you counting my men?" Robb asks the scout, and when the man nods, she continues, "How high did you get?"

After a moment's hesitation, he answers, "Twenty thousand. Maybe more," and his eyes flit around to every lord in the tent. Someone must have forgotten to inform him a woman was leading the host. 

From behind her, Ser Rodrik says, "You don't have to do this yourself, your father would -"

"My father understands mercy, when there's room for it," she says without turning around. "And he understands honor, and courage. Let him go."

Her lords look at her, incredulous, and she knows that if she fails here, this is the end. Mother says, "Robb," in the voice that means she's about to be in very much a lot of trouble indeed if she doesn't stop what she's doing right this instant, but Robb ignores that too. 

Instead, she leans close to the scout's ear and says, "Tell Tywin Lannister winter is coming for him. Robin Stark is marching twenty thousand Northerners south to see if he really does bleed gold."

By the time she backs away, the man's forehead has gone from creased confused to his face bloodless. "Yes, My Lady," he says. "Thank you, My Lady."

Once the men lead him out, Lord Umber comes around in front of her. "Are you touched, girl?" he asks. "Letting him go?"

Lord Umber's big enough that she must look useless next to him, but she squares her shoulders, and meets his eyes. "Call me girl again," she tells him, voice barely above what she used on the scout. "Go on."

He doesn't. Until he leaves, she's expressionless and still, and hopes her heart really isn't pounding so hard the others can hear it. 

Then he's gone, and it's time for her to prove herself.

 

 

Catelyn barters off Sansa, once home, and Arya, once of age, to marriage agreements with the Freys. When she returns to her daughter's encampment, Theon and a few other archers are already turning wing feathers from all the shot down ravens into fetching. 

"Do you consent to these terms?" she asks when they join inside the War Council tent, and reluctantly, Robb says she does. 

A few hours later, they cross, and the armies split. The war is underway, and Catelyn tries not to think about Lysa saying her daughter is going to get herself killed. 

  

 

The moment Jaime feels the blade touch his throat, he knows the battle is over. Most of his men are half asleep, him included, and this is just insulting. No one attacks after dark - too dark to see, too dark to fight.

Maybe this is what it means to go up against a girl. 

In the light of the fires, with her hair blood red and eyes colorless, Robin Stark doesn't look human. "Tie him up," she orders, voice clearer than it sounded in Winterfell. She's not yelling, but the sound carries all the same. So this was her doing, then, not her future husband's or some other lord's. Father was wrong. "You're done, Lannister. We're taking you back to camp."

He thinks of Cersei, waiting for him back in the Red Keep, and of how disappointed his father will be. Before he can say anything in answer, a rope yanks around his wrists, and then his arms, and he's wrapped tight. All around him lie his men, dead, about a dozen with their throats ripped out by the wolf prowling behind Robin Stark. No one ever warned him she could fight. 

 

 

"Do you think my father will be angry with me?"

It's dangerous, lying around in her tent only half dressed when someone could call on either of them at any moment, but after weeks of spending near every waking moment with her, and most nights, Theon's used to having Robb at his side. More than that, she worried to the point of bitten nails, something she hasn't done in years. "Angry that his daughter marched across Westeros with an army at her back to free him?" he answers, running his fingers lightly up and down her arm. "He'll be proud, Robb - and grateful. Doesn't seem like he'll be getting himself out any time soon."

With a sigh, sad and long, she says, "This should have been Bran's decision, legally. It isn't right that I did it instead."

What would his own father do in reaction to something like this? Theon doesn't even have enough memories of him to answer that question for himself. He thinks he might know at Ned Stark well enough, though, or at least well enough to say, "Any terms you send to the Lannisters will be ignored. We both know that. Likely your father knows that as well. He'll want whatever allows his daughters to be safe."

"I suppose." Despite her agreement, she still sounds doubtful. "Theon, when we do return, I want to marry sooner rather than later. I think we're close enough to husband and wife by this point anyway."

Comparatively to other arrangements, they haven't been betrothed very long, but he would have wed her this past year had he the chance. Within a month of their engagement, even. Would do it properly, the way she wanted - in front of the heart tree in the godswood in witness of her father's gods. He still feels like an outsider there, a feeling he knows Catelyn shares, but the North has been his home for long enough, and his bride's a Stark. 

"As soon as Jon can get down from the Wall," he says. "I think he'd skewer me on the end of his sword if I let him miss his sister's wedding. But we'll marry the day he arrives."

She nods, and lies against his side. After they return, after they're wed - when his father dies, they're be Lord and Lady of the Iron Islands. 

Despite his better judgement, Theon can't help but wonder if they're both too Northern for that now.

 

 

Father dies, and Arya runs. 

"I'll bring you to the Wall, let your brother and uncle decide what to do with you," Yoren tells her when she's still so numb with shock she doesn't know what to say. Her hair lies in clumps at her feet, blending in with the dirt coating the alley ground. "Without your sister in Winterfell, I don't imagine it's much safer there."

That shakes her out of it, a bit. "Robb isn't in Winterfell? Where is she?"

"Haven't you heard? North declared war on the Crown, and the Lady Robin's leading the host."

With Father dead, there's not much that Arya would think is good news, but this is. If anyone can get revenge, it's Robb. And if Arya hears of the host nearby, she running towards it before Yoren can tell her not to.

 

 

When she sees the raven, Robb barely makes it into the forest without collapsing. Father's gone, who's to say her sisters will be alive much longer, and this was for them. She hadn't left for some grand adventure. All she wanted was her family, whole and safe. 

Mother holds her tight when she finds her. "I'm going to kill them all," Robb says, voice muffled by the fabric of the dress. "Every last one of them. They're not going to get away with this, they're not -"

"Oh, my sweet girl," Mother says, and lets her cry. "They have your sisters. We have to get them back. Then we will kill them all."

Together, in the quiet Westerlands woods, they cling to each other, and before Robb reaches King's Landing, she decides, she wants the Lannisters scared. She needs to keep winning her battles because she needs them to understand what they've done.

Her family deserves that much, at least.


End file.
